Memento Matris
by Kiki102
Summary: On the first anniversary of Oliver's mum's death, Sherlock needs help. Because emotions are really not his area. Oneshot. Part of the Sherlock's Infant Instructions universe.


**I'm hoping to write about Molly and Oliver's first meeting eventually. Until then though, there's this. This is the first time I've ever written Molly, so I'm hoping I've got her right.**

**Christina x**

**XOXOXOX**

Usually Oliver was happy and friendly, so when he started to become silent and withdrawn, Sherlock noticed. But since emotions were admittedly not his strongest area, he turned to John for clarification.

"John. Why is he quiet? What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Have you tried talking to him? Asking what's wrong?" John asked patiently.

"No."

John sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes and shake his head. Almost a year and still Sherlock hadn't grasped the concept of asking his son what he was feeling, instead of automatically turning to John.

Oh.

"Sherlock, when did George die?"

"Third of August last year."

"That's a year ago on Saturday."

"So?"

"So, it's the anniversary of his mum's death," John explained.

"So?"

"So he's going to be upset."

"Why?"

John stared at him.

"Not good?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Forget I asked."

Emotions really weren't his area.

XOXOXOX

Over the next couple of days, Mary and Oliver planned how to spend the anniversary of George's death. John had been volunteered to look after Amy and Jack, while Sherlock had been told to stay quiet on Saturday. As much as he resented being told what to do, he acknowledged that Mary was much better at that kind of thing than he was. He planned to spend Saturday updating his index of tobacco ash.

However, on Friday evening, Amy tripped over the rug and hit her arm off the coffee table. Both Mary and John were in agreement that it was probably broken, so leaving Jack with Mrs Hudson, they took her off to casualty. Sherlock thought nothing of it until the next morning when Oliver came downstairs, still in his pyjammas.

"Where's Mary?" he asked.

"Still at the hospital," Sherlock replied from behind his newspaper. Oliver bit his lip, looking at the floor. As he turned the page of the paper, Sherlock caught sight of his son, and the date at the top of the page.

Third of August.

George.

He had no idea what Mary had planned with Oliver, and it looked like they were going to be at the hospital for a while, despite John telling the duty nurses that his six year old daughter should take precedence over drunks and drug addicts. His first thought was Mrs Hudson, however he quickly remembered she was in charge of Jack so if she took Oliver, he would have to deal with Jack. And while he liked John and Mary's son well enough, he didn't think he could entertain him on his own for a whole day.

Oliver disappeared back upstairs to his room, leaving Sherlock feeling every so slightly panicked (Not panicked... Worried, no... Perturbed... No. Something. But not panicking). Who could help? He grabbed his phone.

_Need your help. Urgent. Come now. SH_

Seconds later his phone beeped with a reply.

_Are you in danger?_

_Are you fatally injured? _

_Are you ill?_

_Are Mary, John or the children any of the above?_

_If the answer to any of these are yes, I'm on my way with backup. Otherwise, I'm busy. GL_

Sherlock briefly considered texting back yes, however he hadn't quite been able to delete the memory of the bollocking Lestrade had given his following his request for help with his best man's speech.

_No, we're fine. Doesn't matter. SH_

Sherlock stared at his phone. There had to be someone who could help. Mycroft was out of the question. He was worse at this sort of thing than Sherlock was. Besides, Oliver wasn't exactly keen on his uncle. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson was busy, John and Mary were at the hospital which left...

Molly.

XOXOXOX

"I need your help."

"Sorry, say that again?" Molly said.

"You know what I said," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth.

"No, I don't think I heard you," she smiled.

"I. Need. Your. Help."

"With what?"

"Oliver."

"Sherlock, I am not a babysitter-"

"No," he interrupted. "I don't want you to babysit, I want your help. George died a year ago."

"George?" she frowned.

"His mother. Mary planned to do something with him but she's at the hospital with Amy and I... I don't know what to do."

Molly studied Sherlock for a moment. He refused to meet her gaze, his dislike of asking for help plain to see. However, there was something else. Frustration. Sherlock liked being the best at anything he turned his hand to, so the knowledge that he couldn't be the best father was clearly painful. Not that he wanted anyone to see that.

Eventually she nodded.

"Okay."

Sherlock frowned.

"I'll help you," she clarified.

XOXOXOX

Molly knocked on Oliver's bedroom door before opening it. She'd never been up here before. She glanced around the room. It was painted blue with a packed bookshelf next to the window and a poster of pirates above the single bed, toys littered across the floor.

Oliver was curled up on his bed, however he sat up when he heard Molly. His eyes were red and puffy, however he tried stubbornly to look like he hadn't been crying. Just like his father.

"Hi Olly," she smiled, perching on the edge of the bed. She was struck again by how much Oliver looked like Sherlock. He had the same black curls and nose, and although his eyes were green instead of blue, they had the same expression in them.

"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked.

"Well Sherlock, um, I mean, your dad called me cause Mary's at the hospital with Amy, so I thought maybe we could take you to visit your mum. If you'd like?"

"Can we take flowers?" Oliver asked.

"Of course we can," Molly replied. "What do you think?"

Oliver nodded. Molly felt her heart go out to the boy.

"You get dressed, I'll wait downstairs with Sh- with your dad."

When she returned to the living room, Sherlock was in his usual chair, drumming his fingers on the arm. He jumped up when Molly came in.

"We're going to take him to visit George," she said.

"To visit? Molly, she's-"

"Her grave," she clarified.

"Ah... We?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"I don't think it's a good idea for me to come."

"You're his dad Sherlock."

"Yes but-"

"You're all he's got."

XOXOXOX

"Molly?" Oliver said in a small voice as she crouched in front of him to tie his tie.

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

"Why?"

"I don't want dad to be angry," he admitted.

"Why would he be angry Olly?"

"If I cry when we visit mum. I don't want him to be mad."

"He won't be mad," Molly assured him. "John and Mary have explained to him that you're upset because you miss your mum. Besides, if he says anything, I'll slap him again. Did he ever tell you I slapped him?" Oliver shook his head.

"Three times."

"Why?"

"He was being stupid. For a smart man, your dad can be very stupid."

Oliver giggled. Then to Molly's surprise he reached forward and gave her a quick hug.

"Thank you," he said.

"It's okay," she replied. "My dad died. I understand."

"Was he sick?" Oliver asked. Molly nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "Mum was sick," Oliver said.

"You know, she didn't... She didn't choose to die," Molly said. "She didn't want to. She'd rather, she would've wanted to stay. With you."

Oliver nodded, and Molly squeezed his shoulder.

XOXOXOX

Molly and Sherlock stood back as Oliver sat down in front of the gravestone, quietly telling his mum everything that had happened since John took him last a few months ago. Sherlock's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his collar turned up against the drizzle. The day was decidedly grey, which Molly supposed, rather suited the occasion. However Sherlock's eyes never left his son.

"Thank you," he said quietly, breaking the silence. Molly turned to him in surprise.

"Two Holmes' saying thank you to me in one day. Is it Christmas?" she teased. They fall back into silence, watching Oliver. They can't hear what he's saying, he's too quiet and the wind is blowing in the wrong direction.

"How old?" Sherlock asked eventually. Molly frowned. "How old were you? When your dad...? Sorry. Not good."

"No. No, it's fine," Molly replied. "I was at university. In the middle of my final year exams. Great timing."

"What happened?"

"Why?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"My parents are both still alive. I don't... I don't understand."

"He had a heart attack. Stupid, stubborn man. If he'd gone to the doctor, he's been having chest pains, he wouldn't go though. Then eventually he did. Got put on a waiting list. Assured he'd have an appointment within six months. An appointment," she said bitterly. "Not a bypass, an initial appointment. If he'd had a heart attack then he'd get one sooner. He had a heart attack only... NHS killed my dad. And he knew. He got that look, when no one was looking, he knew he wasn't going to get a bypass in time."

"I'm... sorry," Sherlock said. Molly brushed away the tears which had collected in her eyes. "Does it... stop hurting?"

"Eventually," she replied. "But you always wish he was here."

Sherlock nodded.

"Tell me about her," Molly said.

"Who?"

"George. Oliver's mum."

"She never told me much."

"Since when do you need to be told?"

"Her name was Georgina Carter. She was five foot six, size ten. She had light brown hair with blonde streaks during summer and green eyes. She didn't drink alcohol and didn't like going out. She studied a degree in history and passed with honours. She taught secondary school history. Her mother was a doctor and her father was a teacher. She liked milk in her coffee. She was an only child. She had three failed relationships in her life. She was right handed but only played tennis with her left. She liked horses but couldn't afford one. She couldn't drive. She played piano. She was stubborn and smiled a lot."

"How did you meet?"

"We lived in the same flat in first year halls."

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened beside her. Frowning, Molly looked at Sherlock, then back at Oliver and realised that Oliver was crying. Within seconds, Sherlock strode over to his son and picked him up, Oliver wrapping his arms round Sherlock's neck. Molly rubbed Oliver's back, feeling her heart go out to the boy once more, remembering the first anniversary of her dad's death.

XOXOXOX

Once they'd returned to 221b, they'd ordered Chinese, although it was Molly and Oliver who'd eaten most of it. Then Oliver took out a photo album with pictures of him and his mum to show Molly. She smiled and listened as he told her stories behind some of the pictures, not always following, but doing her best to.

"What's that one?" Molly asked, pointing.

"That's the only picture of mum and dad together," Olly replied. Molly examined the picture, fascinated. She'd never seen Sherlock look so young. His hair was shorter and he was in a t-shirt and jeans, but otherwise same old Sherlock. She wondered if he'd started using by then. He was lying along a couch, his head and feet on the armrests. Next to him in an armchair was George, her head leaning back turned towards Sherlock, in mid conversation.

Later while the two of them sat on the couch watching TV, Oliver fell asleep leaning against Molly. She smiled softly down at the little boy. Sherlock came through from the kitchen, where he'd been working on his tobacco ash index to calm his mind. He stopped and watched his son and his pathologist. Then, carefully, he picked up Oliver and carried him upstairs to bed.

Molly followed, watching Sherlock remove Oliver's shoes before tucking him in. She bit back a smile. Despite what she told herself and anyone who asked, she was not over Sherlock, and moments like this just proved to her why not. Because despite his protestations to the contrary, he had feelings and he cared. He cared enough for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to fake his death. He cared for Mary enough to say she was worthy of John. He cared enough for Amy and Jack to take time out of his experiments and cases to tell them – not always entirely appropriate – stories. And he cared enough for Oliver that seeing his son cry made him uncomfortable.

XOXOXOX

John was sorely tempted to find his gun and shoot at the smiley face Sherlock had spray painted on the wall years ago. After spending all night and half the day at the hospital, because a broken arm was not serious enough to demand immediate attention apparently, Amy had had her arm put into plaster and they'd made it home. They put Amy to bed, and Mary retrieved Jack from Mrs Hudson while John poured himself into the shower. Then, leaving his wife and son curled up on the couch together, John forced himself to climb the stairs to 221b to check on Oliver and Sherlock.

"Afternoon," he said, collapsing into his chair opposite Sherlock.

"How's Amy?" Sherlock asked, putting down his book.

"Fine. She was more fascinated than scared."

"Clearly your daughter."

"Says the detective whose son likes looking at crime scenes."

Sherlock smiled.

"Touché."

"Where is Olly?"

"Asleep. We took him to visit George."

"We?"

"Me and Molly. Then we had Chinese and they watched TV and he fell asleep so I put him to bed."

"Good. And it's all fine?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, picking up his book again.

"Good," John replied. Then he hauled himself to his feet, trudged downstairs and collapsed into bed.


End file.
